


The Wildwood Bride

by starfishdancer



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Biospecialist - Freeform, Daisy and Jemma are BFFs in every universe, F/M, Fairy-Tale Inspired, Friendship, I just know it is going somewhere and I can't stop it, I'm not entirely sure where this is going yet, Jemma Simmons & Skye | Daisy Johnson Friendship, The Fantasy/Vampire AU no one asked for, The Muse wouldn't leave me alone until I wrote, eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2018-01-13
Packaged: 2018-12-16 01:13:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11818104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starfishdancer/pseuds/starfishdancer
Summary: Those that enter the Wildwood don't come out the same, if they come out at all. But Jemma must enter the Wood as promised by her parents before she was born, bound by them to become the bride of one of its strange inhabitants.





	1. Into the Wood

**Author's Note:**

> This vaguely fairy-taleesque AU will not leave me alone, even as I poke about at other work I have on the go, so I listened to the Muse and have started to let this take shape, though it's going at it's own pace and I can't hurry it. It will eventually be Biospecialist ... but not yet. Among other fairy-tale type works I've devoured over the years, this owes its provenance to fantastic books like "Uprooted" by Naomi Novik and "Karavans" by Jennifer Robberson.
> 
> A very big thank you to Britts, who writes here as Dresupi, who was kind enough to bet this even though it isn't a pairing that usually works for her, and who has saved readers from experiencing my typos, among other things. Any left are all on me; she's fantastic and you should definitely check out her work as well. And now on with the show...

The Wildwood Bride

Jemma can’t sleep. She knows she should try to get as much rest as she can tonight. She has a long day of travel to the borderlands tomorrow, and longer still into the Wildwood. The sun had set hours ago and she’s been laying in the dark, silent and still, but her ever-active brain won’t quiet. Her thoughts keep turning to how, after tomorrow, this small bed will no longer be hers. Tomorrow will be the last morning she combs her hair and tidies herself as best she can in the fogged reflection the slightly-convex looking glass on the rickety vanity offers her. Tomorrow…

A quiet tapping on the window pane has her pushing the covers back to sit. The tapping comes again. Her bare feet are cold on the stone floor as she moves the short distance to pull the drapes open. 

Crouched on the roof, just outside Jemma’s attic room window, is Daisy, her dark hair loose and blown amess in the wind Jemma had thought ominous, a precursor to a storm. Jemma throws her curtains wider so she can undo the lock and wrestle open the sash.

“You know you could simply knock at the entrance. The Sister on duty would have sent you up, I’m sure,” Jemma teases softly. “You’re no longer a student, bound by curfew.”

“Didn’t want to risk it,” Daisy shrugs as she slides into the room, a graceful, practiced movement. “In case they didn’t let me in at this hour. Or worse, sent me to prayers.”

Jemma smiles fondly at her friend, then gestures at the bed until Daisy sits on the edge. It’s a tentative moment, and it hurts Jemma’s heart. Daisy’s movements are bold, confident usually, but already Jemma’s pending goodbye is pulling at them. 

She tries to shake away her maudlin thoughts as she makes the few steps to her rickety vanity, where she finds the stub of a candle she’d put out earlier. She strikes a match and lights the wick. It won’t last much longer than a half hour. She hadn’t seen a purpose in coaxing a new candle from Sister Unity, who has charge of the stores this moon’s cycle. She means to make the joke like she normally would to Daisy about the good Priestess being misnamed, that she should have taken Sister Frugality. The hollow feeling in her chest extinguishes the words before they can leave her mouth.

“Oh, don’t do that,” Daisy begs as she catches Jemma’s face in the added glow of light the candle provides. “You’ll cry, and then I’ll cry, and it will be a whole thing. And I don’t want to spend your last night crying. We can cry tomorrow, just… just not tonight.”

“Alright,” Jemma says, lifting her chin stoically and setting the candlestick on the windowsill, where it is close enough to the bed to provide some light while they talk. “I can try.”

“Besides,” Daisy says. “I think enough tears have been shed tonight over this.”

“You saw Fitz, I take it?” Jemma says, the dismay clear in her voice. Daisy’s grimace is answer enough. “Poor Fitz. He’s not taking this well.”

“That is a vast understatement.” Daisy toes her shoes off so she can pull her knees to her chest and propel herself until her back hits the wall. “He was already half in his cups when I came out to serve dinner at the inn, and it simply went downhill from there. I finally convinced Mack to help him – drag him, really - to the loft to sleep it off for the night.”

“Which leaves you without a place to sleep. Oh Daisy, I am sorry.”

“Hey, you’re not the one in my cot, snoring loudly enough to wake the dead,” Daisy points out.

“Yes, but I am the one who broke his heart,” Jemma says, sitting heavily on the bed, though she doesn’t move to sit next to her friend. Instead, she balances on the edge, spending a long moment simply watching the flame of the candle flicker. Daisy, irreverent and audacious as she is, surprises Jemma by holding the silence, giving her the space she needs to talk about what had occurred.

“He asked me not to go, tomorrow,” Jemma says finally. “To run away and marry him instead.”

“And you said no.”

“And I said no.”

The silence again stretches a long moment. Then Daisy reaches forward to take Jemma’s hand, squeezes it. “That must have been very hard.”

“It was,” Jemma admits. “I’m very fond of Fitz, and I didn’t want to hurt him. But I’ve never entertained any of those kinds of feelings for him, and even if I had…”

“You are,” Daisy smiles sadly, “for all intents and purposes, betrothed.”

“Yes,” says Jemma. “A Covenant Child.”

She makes a valiant effort, she thinks, to keep the bitterness from her voice.

“Your parents made the bargain,” Daisy says. “Let them deal with failing to meet the terms of their Petition.”

“I couldn’t,” Jemma protests. 

Daisy continues as though she hasn’t heard. “What will they lose? Some ill-gained wealth? So what? Better than you losing your freedom, if not …”  
She doesn’t finish. It’s as though she can’t bear to admit what Jemma, too, fears she might lose.

“They didn’t Petition for money,” Jemma says quietly. “They aren’t wealthy.”

“But… they were able to send you to school here! And not as a charity case like I am!”

Jemma shrugs. “They weren’t the ones who paid my tuition.”

“Then what…” Daisy trails offs, shakes her head in confusion. 

Jemma takes a deep breath. “My parents Petitioned the Wildwood to bear children. I was the price.”

Daisy curses, a slew of words that turn Jemma’s cheeks pink.

“Shhh,” Jemma rushes to hush her. “You know better than to invoke that here, especially when you know the Wood is opening to send for me.”

Daisy looks chagrined. “Sorry. It’s just… No wonder you’ve always been evasive. Bad enough I was found just outside the Wood... But if they knew you’d been born because of Wildwood magic, not just traded away like… like…“

“I should have let them know,” Jemma cuts her off. “Then you wouldn’t have been alone, forced to bear the stigma because they thought you’d been abandoned by Petitioners, or spared a Taking, or….”

“Or that I might even be a Wildling? Jemma, you are a literal gem for considering it.”

“I should have –“

“You should have done exactly as you did. Those superstitious busy-bodies can go … do things the Sister would box my ears for saying aloud. I stopped being alone the moment you were sent here. The snooty students were never going to warm to a charity student, and the village children weren’t any better. Or the adults, for that matter,” Daisy’s rueful tone might seem uncaring, but Jemma knows better how much it stung. Still stings. 

“They shunned me but you didn’t,” Daisy says fiercely. “And you didn’t start even though it made them treat you like you were tainted before they found out you were to be sent into the Wildwood. Don’t think for even a moment you’ve got guilt to bear. That’s on your parents. You should just let them face the consequences and not go.”

“Even if it didn’t mean my life might be forfeit anyway – I was only born because of the Wood, after all - I have siblings. ‘Your seventh born, to be borne back to the Wood.’ Their lives…” Jemma trails off. “I won’t be what causes them to lose theirs, too.”

“I’m so afraid for you,” Daisy breathes out. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t… I don’t want to make you afraid.”

“It’s fine,” Jemma says, shrugging lightly though the thought is heavy in her chest. “I’m a little frightened, too, but ... So tomorrow I will go to my groom-”

“To your doom,” Daisy may mutter softly, but it’s low enough Jemma can ignore it.

“As promised,” Jemma finishes. 

“Only a little frightened?”

“I’ve known I’d be Taken since I was five years old,” Jemma evades.

“That’s not an answer and you know it.”

“I do know,” Jemma whispers. “I’m terrified. But it won’t stop me from going. So…”

Daisy darts up, hugs her tightly.

“It’s not fair!”

“No,” Jemma says lowly, squeezing Daisy tighter. “It isn’t fair. My life has never been mine.”

“I don’t want you to go,” Daisy says, her voice muffled in Jemma’s hair. “Even if it meant having you join the other women in eyeing me sideways like I’m a demon sent to steal their men or their souls.”

“I’d never,” Jemma says fiercely. “And maybe … maybe it won’t a terrible fate. What would have been the point of paying for schooling, if it wasn’t to be a ... wife … and not a sacrifice?”

“That’s who sent you here? Your… betrothed?”

Jemma nods. 

“Well, that’s good,” Daisy says firmly. “There wouldn’t be any reason to sending you here if it was just going to eat you.”

“Well, perhaps the creature only eats a certain class of bride. Perhaps a peasant bride would taste more terrible. Or perhaps it just wanted me to have a religious education that had more respect than hatred for the Wildwood, so I wouldn’t fight it.”

“I doubt it,” Daisy says frowning. “It seems like a lot of trouble to take just to murder you.”

“I hope so,” Jemma worries. “But I suppose it doesn’t matter anyway. Those that enter the Wildwood don’t come out the same. If they come out at all.”

“’Nothing good comes out of the Wildwood,’” Daisy quotes lowly.

“If you are really a Wildling, then at least one good thing did,” Jemma insists. The corner of Daisy’s mouth lifts as she tries to smile, and she reaches over to hug Jemma impulsively.

“So… speaking of things that change,” Daisy says, shifting uncomfortably as she pulls back. “Did the Sisters tell you might have to expect, as a … wife?”

“Yes,” Jemma nods. “It would seem the Sisters determined that someone ought to see to my education as a mother would, before a wedding night.”

“I’m sure that went well, considering they all took vows and have no worldly experience.”

Jemma can hear Daisy’s eyes rolling. 

“I just want you to know… it isn’t as bad as they imagine. It can actually be a lot of fun.”

Jemma barks a bit of a laugh. 

“You aren’t surprised, are you?” Daisy hurries. “You know I’m not exactly the type to keep to religious rules, and it isn’t like the village look down on my any further as a ‘Wildling’”.

“No, no,” Jemma reassures her. “Though I hope you are taking the precautions young ladies aren’t supposed to know about but were gossiped about in the dorms anyway. I don’t want you unhappily tied to anyone.”

“No worries, there,” Daisy says. “Turns out the midwife and the apothecary are both more than happy to make sure no little half-Wildlings end up running around. I’ve got more of a supply than I have men with whom I’m interested in taking a tumble in the hay. So … back to your own tumble talk? Was it all ‘lay back and your flower will open for him and you’ll bloom as a woman’? Because let me tell you, it is not helpful for the real deal.”

“They sent Sister Merciless – Sister Mercy,” Jemma teases just to make Daisy smile. “You forget, she used to be married, before her husband was Taken. She said much the same thing as you, really.”

“That it isn’t as bad as they preach to young girls to keep them from making naughty, fun decisions?”

Jemma nods. “Though not quite in those words. Just that perhaps I can make the best of it. Not just…”

“Lay back and think of Mother Modesty?”

“Oh, Daisy” Jemma says fondly. “Just when I think you can’t get any more irreverent.”

“Might as well exceed expectations,” Daisy shrugs. “But I should go, so you can get some rest.”

“No, stay,” Jemma says, reaching to fumble for her hand. “Fitz has taken over your bed for the night, and I don’t expect to sleep anyway.”

“You should at least try,” Daisy says firmly. 

“I will,” Jemma promises. “There’s not much room, I know, but… I’d rather not be alone, if it’s all the same to you.”

“It’s not all the same to me at all, Jem.”

They both ignore the way their voices waver. They’d said enough tears, after all. 

“Alright,” Daisy says, slipping off the cot to strip out of her heavy skirt and shirt, while Jemma pads over to the wardrobe to take out a neatly folded nightdress.

“You haven’t packed?” Daisy’s alarmed voice is louder than she anticipated, if the hand she clamps over her own lips is any indication. 

“No, I did,” Jemma says. “It’s just… I don’t know that I’ll need many things. What my purpose is going to be, as wife to a creature of the Wildwood. I’ve a few changes of dress and night clothes. I was hoping you’d come to say goodbye tomorrow, but if not, I was going to ask one of the Sisters to bring them to you.”

“Jemma,” Daisy says. “Those are yours, from your teaching wages...”

“Oh, don’t protest,” Jemma says. “They are good, sturdy material and I’m sure if they need fitting, it will still be less expensive than purchasing new clothes to take them to a tailor.”

“Since I sadly still can’t sew a straight hem,” Daisy says ruefully. “Or a crooked one. Are you certain?”

“My parents bargained that I would come into this marriage,” Jemma says firmly, “not that I’d bring anything at all with me. If my husband wants me to have more or different clothing, he’ll have to provide it.”

“Alright,” Daisy placates. “I’m not going to turn away free clothes. And wearing them will remind me of you.”

Jemma pulls Daisy into a tight hug, the plain cotton nightdress drifting forgotten to the floor while the two hold each other. Jemma isn’t sure which one of them is trembling. They don’t speak of it, don’t examine each other close enough to see if one or both of them has failed to keep their promise not to cry. When they finally drop the embrace, Jemma turns abruptly, pretends to be occupied with the candle at the window, closing and fussing with the drapes while she composes herself. 

When she finally turns, Daisy is already in the nightdress, and has bunched her clothes onto the vanity, in a half-hearted attempt at folding them. She smiles sheepishly, if sadly, as she crawls into the narrow bed and scoots over to the wall, holding up the plain grey quilt for Jemma to tuck under.

Jemma takes a breath, extinguishes the light.

////////

Jemma doesn’t sleep so much as drift in and out for what is left of the short night, her hand tightly clutched in Daisy’s. She doesn’t think Daisy has slept much either, as she sits up as easily as Jemma when the soft knock comes, and the door creaks softly open.

“Jemma? Are you awake?” 

Sister Mercy’s face is ever stoic in the glow of her own candle as she comes in on quiet feet, not blinking even when she finds two weary young women in the bed instead of one. 

“Yes,” Jemma whispers belatedly. “I’m awake.”

Sister Mercy briefly lays a hand on Jemma’s shoulder, squeezing lightly before letting go to open the drapes. The sky is the bare grey of just gone dawn, the sun not quite yet on the horizon.

“It’s time to dress,” Sister Mercy says, not without compassion. “The carriage will be here soon. Sisters Gentleness and Trinity will be here shortly with a basin and some water.”

Jemma nods.

“Will you need their help preparing, or…”

“I’ll help her,” Daisy says. “It will be like old times.”

Sister Mercy’s lips lift slightly, a ghost of a smile. Another soft knock on the door and the young novitiates are let in, each carrying a pitcher of water, one steaming, the other presumably cold from the well. Sister Gentleness hurries to set hers down along with rags pulled from her apron, taking the pitcher from Sister Trinity so she can set down the empty basin she had propped between her elbow out, Daisy quickly scooping her bundle of clothes out of the way. Silently, the three Sisters file out, leaving Daisy and Jemma alone. 

Jemma moves to the basin, emptying the hot water into it, then adding the cold until it is a temperature she can live with. Quickly looping her hair to knot on top of her head, she strips out of her nightdress and uses a damp cloth to wash away the remnants of a restless night. She’d had the ritual bath the night before. Seven washes attended by seven Sisters, a mixture of seven oils anointing the water. Her hair still smells faintly of roses. 

Daisy hands her the underclothes she’d left folded in her wardrobe, helps her lace her stays loosely for the ride ahead. She’s fortunately proportioned enough she almost doesn’t need one. While she was still a student and not a tutor in the school, the other girls in the dorm used to look wistfully at her tiny waist and tell her they wished they were able to achieve as much without pulling their corsets so tightly. Perhaps it will please her husband. Perhaps it won’t. Whatever else he may or may not have been before the Wood, he is a creature of it now. For all she knows, he could have a face made of tentacles and wish she had the same.

She unknots her hair, letting the loose waves fall about her face as Daisy hastily redresses in yesterday’s skirt and flowy blouse, uncaring of the wrinkles she can’t shake out. Jemma, on the other hand, takes out the carefully-pressed traveling dress she’d hung in her wardrobe yesterday. Daisy helps he step into it, buttons it up the back with nimble fingers.

The dress is a simple shift in pale grey. Not the gown most girls dream of for their wedding. Daisy ushers her to sit at the vanity, then makes quick work of pinning Jemma’s hair up in an elegant twist. She’s finished not a moment too soon, as the sun makes its way up the horizon and Jemma feels more than hears the carriage arrive. Jemma makes to rise, but Daisy’s hands on her shoulders stop her. In the ill-made glass, Daisy’s reflection nods down at the small wooden box next to her comb.

Her necklace. She’d nearly forgotten.

It had been sent to her five years ago, on her sixteenth birthday, a gift from her future husband. She wears it rarely, as it is finer than anything else she owns and seems to warrant an occasion. She supposes there is no better day than her wedding day. 

Jemma slides open the lid, carefully lifting out the thin, fragile-looking chain. It’s a silvered metal so fine it becomes nearly transparent against her skin, leaving the tear-shaped scarlet stone to lay against her sternum. Her fingers shake as she secures the clasp behind her neck. It falls, cold, against her skin. 

It looks like a drop of blood.

Exchanging a sombre look with Daisy, who seems to have been equally affected, they make their way down the stone steps to the entry way. Not a word has been spoken between them. Daisy takes Jemma’s hand as they descend the stairs to whatever awaits Jemma, squeezing light as the door opens.

At the sight of the carriage itself, Jemma can’t help but suck in a breath in a sort of shocked dismay. The thing appears to be woven of branches, and no horses draw it as it shudders to a stop in front of the convent school. Instead, it seems to have walked on the four bent legs, looking altogether more like an insect’s limbs for all that they are made from dried, wooden boughs that come to points sharp enough she can near picture them spearing through her ribs.

Daisy’s grip becomes almost painful as the entwined branches part, like opening a cage. Jemma winces, but it is Sister Charity’s stern look that has Daisy stepping back as her friend is summoned forward. A couple of the town boys who work in the stables are visibly shaking as they carry Jemma’s trunk in reluctant steps toward the carriage. They yelp and drop it as a branch coils away to reach for them, as though impatient with their progress. Her luggage doesn’t have time to hit the ground, but instead is caught mid-air, the branch pulling it to the back. Then vines wrap around it, securing it. Jemma sets her shoulders, pushing the fear down, and moves toward the carriage.

Eight Sisters surround Jemma, then, seven forming a circle around her. The High Priestess steps before her, takes her hands. The proxy for her groom. The seven Sisters chant words in a language Jemma doesn’t know, but so ancient she feels it to her bones. They fall silent, too soon and yet not soon enough, and for a moment she feels as though the world has frozen, such stillness surrounds her. 

Then the High Priestess speaks the binding and, like the sound of a door slamming, Jemma knows it is done.

Her hands are dropped, and the High Priestess nods. 

“You can have a moment to say your goodbyes,” she says, not unkindly for all that she’s always been so stern. Jemma tries to smile as she turns. She can feel her lip trembling. Daisy is no better. Tears run liberally down her face as she launches herself at Jemma. The High Priestess clears her throat.

Jemma looks around. The people of the village are lined up along the road, as far back as tradition will allow them. She scans their faces, hoping, and a pang hits her heart when she doesn’t see Fitz. Her gaze drops and she moves to step in the carriage.

“Wait!” she hears, and she spins on the spot. There, running up the hill, is Fitz. He’s come after all. “Wait, Jemma!”

“I’ll give you just a moment,” the High Priestess warns.

Fitz is panting, hard, when he makes it to her. He’s pale and haggard, partly from heartbreak, partly from his hangover, if the greenish tinge to his skin is any indication. She’s worried, for a moment, that he intends to try to stop her again, to hurt them both all over. 

“I thought you might want to take this,” he says instead, pressing a thin leather volume into her hands. It’s an oft-borrowed book of verses from the Fitz family library. “It was always your favourite, and Da won’t miss it. ‘Nonsense rhymes’ and all,” he half-smiles, a wry but resigned sort of sadness.

“Thank you, Fitz,” she says sincerely. The verses will be a comfort, of course, but his well wishes… those will be more. She pulls him into a hug, the kind they used to be able to share more freely when they were younger and still considered children. What does propriety matter, now, as she leaves to face whatever awaits her?

He returns the hug, then steps back. Daisy, who had disappeared to give them space it would seem, comes around the corner, her pace quick. She has flowers clutched in her hand.

“Here,” she says, moving to tuck them quickly in Jemma’s pinned curls. “You should look like a bride, at least a little, on your wedding day. For good luck.”

“Oh, Daisy,” Jemma protests. “They’ll simply wilt.”

“No, they won’t,” Daisy says. “You know the ones I pick last longer than anyone’s.”

She pulls Jemma into one last quick hug, then the High Priestess takes her arm, and Jemma is moving away. The Sisters lay their hands on her in blessing as she passes, and Jemma thinks it is Sister Mercy who squeezes her shoulder, as though willing her to be brave. 

Before she can think better of it, she is stepping into the carriage, the branches weaving themselves shut behind her. Through a small gap in the boughs, she can see Daisy and Fitz’s hands clasped, white-knuckled as her transport lurches forward. 

“Be brave, Jemma,” she tells herself as fear tries to overtake her. “Be brave.”


	2. Of Mice and Monsters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jemma arrives at the Wood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, many thanks to Dresupi for making sure everything is in order.

Time passes differently traveling in Jemma’s would-be carriage. Everything seems ordinary at first as she watches through the slits between the branches. The Sisters stand in formation as she is carried away. The small dot that is Daisy leads the Fitz dot away when she must, too, have become a mere spot on the horizon. Only when the stone building is too small to see can she finally tear her gaze away from what she’s leaving behind forever. 

She closes her eyes, for only a moment, to blink back tears. She might have kept them shut longer, but for the strange sensation that rolls over her. The air seems to press down, weighty on her and, startled, her eyes fly open again. The landscape has changed, not the grassy meadows where the townspeople graze their sheep, as she expected she would see. Instead, farmers in the fields along the roadside tend to their crops. Some make the sign against evil as she passes, while others peer after the horseless hansom longingly, half lost already to the Wood. She blinks, feels the distinct weight of the air on her skin. She rouses to houses that become fewer and farther in between. Some are beginning to fall into disrepair. Others have become overgrown, as though the mere thought of the forest is trying to choke them out.

It’s clear she’s traveled many miles from the Convent School, several days’ worth, though she hadn’t felt a shift in speed, only that heady sort of heaviness settle over her until her eyes open again. It’s as though she’s simply lost time in the second her eyes shuttered. She isn’t sure whether it is out of longing for what is behind her, or dread of what lays ahead, but she is loath to hurry along all the same. She keeps them open as long as she can, until she can bear the dryness and stinging no longer.

It’s Wildwood magic, this way of travelling, a magic she’s been taught to fear even as she is given over to it. Still, she can’t help a thread of curiosity from winding through her. Does she pass on in a blur to those farmers, an eerie streak down a rarely traveled road? Or does her speed never change at all, her perception only frozen as her eyes flutter closed? Time is altered, but she has no way of knowing if it is only shifted for her.

The ride itself is smoother than she anticipated as well, a far cry from the heaving gait she’d expected the contraption to lurch in step. She can’t fathom what it might look like outside, if it rocks and shifts on its spidery legs, but inside the ride is steady, comfortable. Even the slatted seats are not as unpleasant as they appear. She feels as though she is sinking deep into a cushion of moss, the seat shifting and accommodating her minute movements. It’s almost enough to lull her to sleep, if not for the creeping terror winding itself tightly around her heart.

Her eyes stinging, she blinks again. The sun has dropped lower in the sky. Now, the signs of twilight pulling at the corners. The roadside has changed significantly, too. No longer are there farmers even sparsely populating the land. Not this close to the Wood. The Wood takes what it wants, and it seems those that cannot find passage into it cannot live outside it.

Though the carriage moves forward as smoothly as before, the landscape outside what passes for a window is rocky, though a few twisted trees and low brushes seem to be attempting to break through. She wonders if this is deliberate, this rock, a way to keep the Wood back, to keep it in place. It is perhaps better at doing so than the prayers and enchantments offered by the Sisters and other orders, she thinks, then chides herself internally for her heresy.

The roadside is not empty, for all its desolate air. Drifting along as they pass, driven by desperation and despair, are what can only be Petitioners. Petitioners and, worse, she shudders to see. Devotees.

Devotees rarely passed through the village and never the convent school. Obsessive. Fanatics. They shunned the Sisters even as they warned against the Devotees, who are dangerous in their zeal for the Wood. They do not fear it, nor even revere it the way some Petitioners do, drawn to what the magic can provide. Instead, they are driven to become part of it, long to shed their humanity. Power-hungry, those she can see from her makeshift window are worthy of her fear, Jemma knows. There is a madness in them, those so assured they will be Chosen, Taken. And more, even, in those who are denied. Perhaps those that leave the Wood do not come out the same, but some are less human for all that they never enter it.

She encountered this closely only once, as a very small child, too young yet to send away to school so there was no daily reminder of the stain of the Wood her parents had bargained into their home. Rumours in the village of her provenance had lead the stranger from the wood to their door, and he meant to buy his way in as her parents had bought an end to their infertility. His grip on her arm had left bruises when her brother pulled her from him, and his unsettling gaze is seared in her memory even if she can’t remember what he said as he tried to carry her away.

Jemma is about to pull her eyes away from the road, to keep them shut until she is past the Edgelands in what might be hours that feel like seconds, when she sees rather than feels a movement for the first time as the carriage steers off the road without so much as the smallest lurch. It’s disconcerting and leaves her dizzy a moment, to see with her eyes what her body belies, the swooping that should leave her world atilt.

The cause is evident just moments later, a disheveled figure rising from the middle of the path where she’d thrown herself prostrate, fingers curled like claws as she reaches after the carriage. She’s so thin Jemma feels she could count her bones, the skin stretches so tightly over them.

“No!” the near woman screams, that same fanatic gaze she had seen in those other eyes so long ago, and desperation in her voice as the carriage continues, without slowing, past her. “Take me with you! I belong! I belong! I’m worthy!”

The cries rise in pitch as rage begins to war with despair. Jemma can’t help but turn to watch after the woman who has begun to stumble after the carriage, feet bare and bleeding on the rocky path way.

Jemma shudders and shuts her eyes tight to block out the sight. She hopes the passage of time continues as it has been, that when she finally pries them open again this whole nightmare will be over. That she’ll be in the Wood to face her fate, whatever it happens to be.

She counts her breaths, clutching the little book of verses tightly in her hands so that the corners make indents in her skin. She gets to seventy-seven before her conveyance is slowing to a halt, and she counts another seven before she cautiously allows herself to open her eyes, expecting to find herself in the thick of the Wildwood.

They have not yet crossed the boundary, she is surprised to find. Instead, it stretches out before her in every direction but behind, the trees growing so close together she wonders that the light ever gets through to let the abundant thickets and brushes below the trees’ canopies grow. They do grow, though, winding and reaching, it seems, looking as though they would clutch at her skirts, legs, throat.

It’s like a fence, or a wall, even, wound so tightly that she can’t see how the smallest child could even pass through, let alone her carriage.

She sets a hand on one of the thicker branches woven into the front of the carriage, and jumps, startled, as it moves slightly so as to leave a gap she can better see through. Once her heart has calmed somewhat, she leans in, peering at what lies in front of her. There, before her, a small straggling line of people, of Petitioners, halted before what a wall of vines at whose significance she can only guess. She isn’t sure who or what signals it, but she feels the air press on her again, then there is a gap in the branches momentarily. A slip of a girl moves through the opening, then they criss-cross shut behind her.

The people and the carriage shift forward, like a collective breath has been exhaled. There is a couple that steps toward door the girl had stepped from, and they pause. Jemma wonders a moment whether they have come to ask the same thing her parents had, feels her throat tighten. She isn’t sure what means to come out, a warning or a sob, because the carriage lurches forward again, and the sound is lost in a startled gasp. 

She thinks at first that the couple has been turned away, that if she had travelled more slowly she might have seen them, too, feet torn by jagged rocks and fingers clawing, begging to be let in. But no. They are stepping back, the crowd parting like the sea in the story the Sisters told, making a path for her to roll to the front of the line. All eyes are on her, and she can’t bear to meet them, to see the awe and the envy. She just wants this done.

The carriage shudders to a halt. Jemma’s heart leaps in fear, but she pushes it down. She grips her book more firmly, moves to stand.

Two silent sentries move forward, not part of the crowd as she first assumed, but part of the Wood. Without a word, one reaches out. She sets her palm in it, lets him hand her out of the carriage. Then both are flanking her, herding her even, to a small pavilion, one that blended so well she hadn’t seen it. Or perhaps it only now let her see it.

This must be the domain of the Oracle, Jemma realizes. She didn’t expect that she would have to stop within, to be measured like the Petitioners and Devotees. Something blossoms in her chest like hope, that she might be found lacking, be sent away. She tamps down on it. She is a sacrifice unto the Wood, and even were she a gift to be returned, that could only mean something terrible for her parents, for her siblings. Whatever else she is to them, she won’t be their undoing.

The sentries stop outside the entryway, so Jemma does as well, but the one who had helped her from the carriage waves her inward. They haven’t spoken a word. Even the crowd is eerily quiet. She’s afraid to make a sound, more afraid her voice won’t work even if she tried to find it.

The inside of the pavilion is cast in shadow, and Jemma blinks as her eyes adjust to the darkness.

“You can come in, little mouse.”

There is a slight mocking lilt to the woman’s voice, and Jemma bristles. Her shoulders straighten and she steps deeper inward. The walls shift a little and light is let in, drawing Jemma’s eyes to the where the voice originated. The woman is backlit, just shadow herself from where she lounges on what is not so much a chair but a throne, cushioned with roses. Jemma moves determinedly closer, and nearly stumbles when the woman tilts her head enough that her face is illuminated.

Spines jut out from a delicately-boned face like thorns, unnaturally-gold eyes fixing themselves on Jemma. Her hands find her skirt and she grips it tightly even as she dips into a respectful curtsey, head bowed and eyes firmly on the dirt floor. She doesn’t shake for it’s a movement well-practiced, though the Sisters had intended their students to demonstrate it before titled visitors rather than ethereal creatures.

The gesture seems to amuse the Oracle, mouth widening into a smile Jemma can only think of as pointed, even as a spiked hand lifts to raise Jemma out of her deferential pose. The mocking tilt of her lips unfading, the Oracle then gestures and a table and bench grow up from the floor. She motions for Jemma to sit, her face shifting into something like impatience, though it is hard read. Jemma hesitates only a moment before moving forward to take her seat, arranging her skirt carefully. Unlike the carriage, the seat is unyielding. She’s careful to keep a grimace from her own countenance, but something of her discomfort must show.

“Would it make you more comfortable, little mouse,” the creature says, “if I spent our interview like this?”

A strange sensation rolls over her, and Jemma looks up from her lap, blinking rapidly as though it could change what is before her eyes. The table has become solid wood, the throne a velvet chair, and in front of her, her dress patterned with the bold red roses that had previously made up her chair, is no longer a creature but a woman. Her lips are painted the same shade as the blossoms of her clothing, her eyes dark pools beneath hair cropped to her chin in glossy dark curls. Only those bones are the same, fine beneath her flawless skin. Sharp.

Jemma’s throat is dry. She swallows, refusing to croak even the slightest. “I’m not a mouse,” she says firmly when she can trust her voice. “And I’d prefer to see things as they are. Illusions change nothing.”

“Very well.”

Another bout of strangeness rolls through her, and Jemma isn’t quite sure how to describe the otherness she feels. It’s like she feels the sound of a glass dropped onto a rock, shards knocked apart and skittering, as the pavilion returns to its former state, the woman a creature again, though her lips remain in their crimson hue. Jemma shivers, and it earns her a tilted head and a long look before the silence is broken once again.

“Not a mouse, perhaps, small and dull and brown. Hmm,” the creature hums almost thoughtfully, but Jemma can’t help but feel she’s being toyed with. “I’m almost not sure what to make of you. A bird, perhaps. Or a kitten.”

The creature holds out a hand expectantly, and though she’s loathe to relinquish Fitz’s gift, Jemma dutifully extends the book. It falls from her fingers onto the table when her wrist is snagged instead, and her hand is weighed, then turned until the palm is facing upward.

“And you,” the creature says with that derisive smile again, though her eyes don’t leave Jemma’s hand, “don’t know what to make of me.”

“No,” Jemma admits freely. “I thought—”

“Go on.” She’s not sure how, but the creature sounds almost bored and amused at once.

“I thought I was to be sent into the Wood. Unless – am I meant to be your bride?”

The creature tips her head back, a sound of delighted surprise leaving her lips. “My bride? Oh, sweet child, were you taught nothing?”

Jemma bites back her irritation at being called a child; were she still a child, the carriage would not have come from her. She’d be at the school still, days spent helping the younger students with the lessons she’d long completed, or laughing through chores with Daisy. She’s seen one and twenty years, today, a child by no one’s accounting and certainly not by the bargain her parents’ had made. But this is a creature of the Wood, and so perhaps she is a child in comparison, a mere sapling to a snag, perhaps. So she holds her tongue.

“No,” the creature laughs again. “I am not your bridegroom, though perhaps you will wish it so when all is said and done. Unless, of course…”

Jemma shakes her head, confused. “Unless?”

“Child, you do not come to Her for your own Petition, but to fulfill a bargain made by another, but you pass before the Oracle all the same, lest you want to make a trade of your own.” The Oracle takes both Jemma’s hands now, in a gesture that mimics comforting but feels nothing like it. “You could be free of this promise. All you have to do is ask.”

Jemma wets her lips, feels a surge of longing. Her eyes flutter shut reflexively, and it overwhelms her, the promise of it. She can almost see it before her. Twilight falling around her as her hand raises to knock on the convent school door. The Sister on watch would open it, relief washing over her face as she recognizes the tired traveler. She could take the vows herself, learn to carry the sacred duty. Or she could find work with Daisy, at the tavern, where the townspeople would forget she had been touched by the Wood, find someone to settle down with, make a family for herself, not the one that denied her a place in it, that sent her away, that did not deserve her sacrifice…

She pulls herself from the spell of it with a gasp, trying to tug her hands free but finding herself rooted to the spot. “No.”

“No?” the Oracle lilts. “What do you owe them, child? They bargained your freedom, your very life. Surely it is their price to pay, not yours.”

“That may well be,” Jemma says, as evenly as she can. “But I won’t be the one to make them pay it.”

“Very well,” the Oracle says, dropping Jemma’s hands unceremoniously, a bored expression falling over her face. She tilts her head at the door in dismissal then turns away, draping herself artfully in her throne.

Jemma moves to rise. She’s stopped, however, by the vines that sprout from the rose throne, which wind themselves around her wrists so quickly she can barely track it. She starts to pull, but they tighten to the point of pain, relenting only when she cries out, her struggle ceasing even as panic begins to creep up on her. The Oracle’s eyes snap open, pinpoint their focus on her.

“I don’t…” Jemma isn’t sure what she means to say, but she’s silenced by the new gleam in the Oracle’s eyes, an interest that wasn’t there before.

“Hmm,” the Oracle hums, her tone unreadable. “I wouldn’t have guessed.”

“Guessed what?” Jemma shakes her head, but the Oracle ignores her question, grabbing her arm. The vines uncoil as the Oracle examines her palm as she did before, though one of the shoots remains, hovers near her open hand as though it, too, is perusing it. A new bud forms at the top of it, breaking open display a hint of red as rich as the ceremonial wine used in the Sisters’ rituals.

“A gift, then,” the Oracle says, though Jemma isn’t sure she’s the one to whom the creature is speaking. The bud bobs slightly, as though in agreement, before stretching out to lay across Jemma’s palm as it flowers. The Oracle snaps the stem, or perhaps razor-sharp nails slice it free, and then the Oracle is closing Jemma’s hand around it, pressing as firmly as the air does around Jemma.

A thorn pierces through her skin and Jemma hisses in pain as the world seems to dip, then right again. The rose has disappear from her fist as though it never was.

At this, the Oracle smiles, releasing Jemma. She opens her fist. The only sign of whatever had happened is the drop of blood beaded in her palm.

Jemma scrambles to her feet, shaking even as nothing moves to stop her this time.

“Don’t forget your book, little lamb. Your groom awaits.” The Oracle holds out the little blue volume carelessly. Though she wants nothing more than to run through the door, back to the rocky path, to the convent, Jemma stretches out to take it. It falls easily into her grip, and she lets out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. The Oracle laughs, a sound like water running over stones and wind through leaves.

The walls of the pavilion draw back into a door to the gateway, where her carriage sits and with a white-knuckled grip on her skirt, Jemma steps through and lets herself be lifted back into it. The gate opens even as her conveyance snaps shut to cage her once again, then, like thunder moving through her, it moves into the Wood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, a certain someone has yet to make an appearance... next chapter, I promise. 
> 
> Comments feed the Muse and make me smile! I also am happy to hear from people on Tumblr, where I'm @thestarfishdancer. Also, sometimes I give things away there. <3

**Author's Note:**

> Comments make the world go round. Or, at the very least, they make me super happy and tend to help me give the Muse a kick in the pants. I'm a totally greedy-pants for comments, basically. I'm also on Tumblr as @thestarfishdancer if you want to say hello for any reason.


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